


House Special

by qvill



Category: Just Roll With It (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, But different, Dreams, Hallucinations, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Poison, character tags are wild in this podcast folks, kinda self-harm, season 2 episode 5 : A Bad Trip, the scene where br'aad drinks a spider and has a Bad Time, yup its another scene rewrite where i make it a goal to Bully Br'aad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:46:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23883997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qvill/pseuds/qvill
Summary: " They’ve had worse.Well, Br’aadthinkshe’s had worse, and he can’t quite guarantee what Mountain’s palate (or lack thereof) has witnessed, but considering the ominous drink is being served in a well-regarded establishment, at least he won’t die. "[ br'aad has a drink, a panic attack, and some funky dreams ]
Comments: 12
Kudos: 112





	House Special

**Author's Note:**

> yknow that audio clip “we have water, milk, juice, spiders—”  
> “spiders?”  
> “spiders it is”  
> “no that isnt—” but she was already pouring a brimming glass of spiders ….
> 
> yeah thats this scene lol
> 
> its quite fun writing someone elses panic attack. I weirdly have a lot of experience writing those, thats totally not relevant to myself
> 
> But!! I messed with my own writing style + grammar to convey speed + panic + fun things so weird spacing, lack of periods, repetition, etc is all intentional. also its really fun writing dreams when you write them with nightmare consistency 
> 
> okay bye guys

They’ve had worse. 

Well, Br’aad _thinks_ he’s had worse, and he can’t quite guarantee what Mountain’s palate (or lack thereof) has witnessed, but considering the ominous drink is being served in a well-regarded establishment, at least he won’t _die._

He’s had sewer water before, and he can give a golden guarantee that _that_ doesn’t go down easy. 

Considering Mountain looks more hesitant at the spider than the glowing green drink, Br’aad lets himself trust the concoction somewhat. Mountain is _also_ constantly chugging out of an endless flask, so that might just be on account of his alcohol tolerance. 

They clink glasses, as Hera watches with distant amusement, and Br’aad snaps an illusionary image of a scorpion over Mountain’s shot. A wonderful alternative, sure fucking thing! Br’aad averts his gaze from his own shot glass, copying the practiced motion of the dwarf, and swallowing the contents in a single go. 

Br’aad holds back the urge to wretch the moment it trails down his throat, fingers squeezing around the glass. There’s the overwhelming sensation of crawling, his back tenses, and a shudder runs through his spine as centipede legs trace down his throat, ant mandibles clack in his ears, spiders draw webs between his teeth… 

He shudders again, and it _burns._ As if harbingers of a cunning venom, the sensory overload of skittering legs makes way for a steady heat, exponentially increasing in its stinging fervor, and the barmaid takes the glass from his hand, knuckles turning white before they claw against the countertop. 

Beside him, Mountain exhales, satisfied, sliding the shot glass away before turning to Br’aad. The half-elf in question has his eyes shut tight, sweat dripping down his brow, fingernails pressing into his palms so hard that he nearly breaks the skin. Mountain raises an eyebrow, moving a hand to set against the younger fellow’s shoulder, before all tension suddenly escapes Br’aad. His fists unclench, his back loses its tension, and he slumps against the bar. 

The resulting thud tips Mountain’s shot glass over the counter, Hera deftly catching it as it falls. 

Mountain looks at his unconscious companion, before smacking his own lips, contemplating the drink. 

He’s had worse. 

Taxi, darting towards the fallen warlock, would rather have his companions stop trying to challenge their varying and objective ‘worse’, thank you very much. It hardly takes much convincing from Taxi to have the dwarf carry the young half-elf upstairs, and Taxi exchanges a wearisome look with Hera. 

She shrugs. “He’ll be alright,” she assures, the unknowing lie slipping by with ease. 

\-----

_he’s a cultist and he’s a corpse on a table_

_and his father is watching, incanting_

_he tries to listen, he’s in a slice of the past but syllables trace over each other, stumbling_

_he stumbles over his own feet and the blue orc is standing and_ he’s _laying down_

_br’aad’s tied and chained to the sacrificial table_

_the blue orc’s sword wrenches from his heart and his own blood splatters across his chest and it tastes cherry sweet on his tongue_

_and the orc walks away with a guttural chuckle matching a monotone beat_

_tick_

_tock_

_tick_

_tock_

_and dad is there too_

_and he looks fatherly_

_and he looks concerned_

_and he looks crazed_

_and he’s staring at br’aad as his son’s chest is being pulled apart by little taut strings_

_forming a harp across his ribcage_

_and he rests a hand on br’aad’s shoulder._

_br’aad smiles whimsically. he murmurs about spiders._

_“you shouldn’t be here,” dad says. his touch is warm. his own blood is cold as it drips down the subterranean staircase._

_“yeah, probably,” he agrees. his arms are chained but he can’t feel his fingertips, his legs, he’s just eyes and a tongue. “i’m dreaming, aren’t i?”_

_dad gives a bittersweet smile, and there’s something nostalgic in there. his hand rests over his son’s eyes and it pulls away and_

_br’aad sits up in a cave._

_\-----_

_he follows ugarth. what else is there to do?_

_he doesn’t look at sylnan’s corpse_

_he doesn’t think about sylnan’s corpse_

_he doesn’t even care about sylnan’s corpse and_

_his thoughts backtrack, lavender-tinted falsehoods stop him in his tracks and_

_he gives his brother’s cold, lifeless hand a squeeze_

_and he pretends it doesn’t squeeze back_

_he follows ugarth and the bread crumb trail of murmurs that he leaves behind. br’aad would want some comfort that his companions didn’t seem convinced he yearned for and he goes to rest a hand on ugarth’s shoulder and the cavern walls crumble around him_

_and they fall like spores and torn paper and secondhand back alley rain_

_and they’re suddenly on a spotlight, the only solid space in the eternity_

_lined with a chessboard grid_

_and_

_he wants to take a reactive step back_

_and teeter off the chessboard_

_a rebellious pawn_

_but kings line before him and ugarth cradles his head in his hands_

_and the void moves_

_eel bodies and snake skin moving and twisting in rivulets_

_as they coagulate and split and weave and bend_

_and eyes peel open against flesh_

_and millions of purple eyes are set on ugarth_

_spectators_

_entertainers_

_and br’aad’s own eyes are glowing, royal purple, reflecting off the smooth black skin that ripples around the platform_

_playing the game that he sought to spectate_

_the largest eye is crimson and a slashed open pupil stares at ugarth_

_“ you are not fit to carry me , “ the void rumbles. “ you_ mutt _.” and every eye and pupil shift to br’aad and_

_the pupil ripples apart, claws pulling it open wider and wider and spiderwebs string between torn fabric and a single, reverberating chord is struck along the impromptu harp_

_and br’aad has chains along his wrists dragging into the abyss and he’s kneeling against a chessboard and he’s staring up at the crimson eye as it pierces into his own and liquid trickles down his face as the void grins, maw stained celestial, and_

Br’aad’s scream twists into a gargled whimper as he jolts up, shoulder blades striking against the bedsheets. His hands claw towards his eyes, feeling the filled sockets, fingernails digging into the soft flesh as a whine builds up in his throat, and it’s a disgusting, poor sound that slips between his teeth, and

Taxi’s soft paws grab against his wrists, pulling them away from his face. Br’aad looks into Taxi’s green eyes, searching for the purple reflection in them, the world is blurring and Taxi is there and—

“Are you real? Is this real? Are you real?” he whimpers, hands meeting the tabaxi’s and feeling the thin, bristled fur, and Taxi’s response is lost as he shudders again, shoulders arching and he makes eye contact with Taxi. 

“Slap me,” he demands, and Taxi obliges. It’s a brilliant, crisp feeling, unconvoluted. Okay. Okay. That’s one sense down, but it’s fleeting as the pain echoes, twisting as it reverberates and his gut wrenches, and he opens his eyes and Ugarth stands before him, calloused hands supporting the half-elf’s arms. 

“Are you alright, Br’aad?” the worn voice murmurs, clear and genuine and Br’aad begins to nod, but the slight movement sends his vision spinning once again, oilslick tentacles dart at the corners of his vision, speckled with red and purple eyes that reflect his own mauve ones, and he can’t fucking be here, the void knows of him and he’s weak and disoriented and _he has to go_. He scrambles off the bed, away from Taxi, and he moves to run towards the window. He can break it. Glass doesn’t hurt too bad. 

He nears the window, and a firm hand grabs his wrist. Br’aad whips around, and Ugarth stands before him, eyes pure crimson, and his arms shift into a gradient to black, the end warped into a inky tentacle, and Br’aad’s back hits the wall. His other wrist is grabbed and bound and he’s back to the table and his father and it’s fucking futile, and he slowly sinks towards the ground. His whimpers and mumbles of protest are lost in the sickly wet sound in his throat, and when he begins to sob, the tentacles slip away. 

He looks up and sees Taxi, his hand slowly reaching towards Br’aad. The uncertainty is palpable, but Br’aad lets it approach, leans into the touch, and cries. 

He can’t see through the cascade of tears. It’s better that way. 

Head against Taxi’s chest, he feels a reverberating sound. Never mind the words it makes (“Sylnan! Vel! Mountain!”), the thrum and vibration of vocal cords is sensation enough. His hands grasp against Taxi’s arms, he can feel every short hair beneath his fingertips, his sobs echo in his own skull, spider legs skitter in his lungs, and he has to consciously focus on every breath, lest it jostle the web within. 

The door to the room slams open, footsteps thundering in, and it’s enough to send Br’aad into a panic. He tries to scoot back further, pressing himself into a corner, his breath quickens and it feels like something’s grating in his throat and he pictures spindly legs creeping their way up and—

A familiar, warm hand grabs his. Br’aad freezes.

“ _Hey, hey, I’m here_ ,” Sylnan whispers, and Br’aad melts into the touch. 

Sylnan shifts, one hand still gripping his brother’s, and the other embracing him as Br’aad leans his head into Sylnan’s chest, and the older half-elf begins to rub circles into Br’aad’s back, whispering the same simple line over and over. “I’m here, breathe, I’m okay, we’re okay,” he says, and the mantra echoes through the room. 

Words begin to exchange over his head, but Sylnan’s rhythm doesn’t falter.

“What happened while we were on the balcony?”

“We had a drink! Some strong shit, but this isn’t alcohol.”

“Hera said he’d be fine after he passed out! I stayed to make sure he was breathing and he just… woke up screaming.” 

“I don’t know why it’s affecting him— there was a dead spider in the drinks, but I didn’t feel anything like… this.”

“I’ll take a look, it might have been the spider, or someone might have poisoned him.” 

“Velrisa, only you come over. He’s having a panic attack.”

Br’aad feels Sylnan’s words through his chest, but the message doesn’t register. There are hushed whispers now, he can’t feel their vibrations or hear the simple sounds, and as footsteps slowly approach, Br’aad lets out a shuddering breath, and looks up. 

Two sets of glowing eyes meet his: one lavender, one crimson, and more than four pupils between them. They bore into him, shifting in different angles, rotating, and it’s _him._ His fucking shirt, his scarf, his cape, his own face, his tattoos are glowing the same hue as their eyes and it ripples into blackened brands against their cheeks and Br’aad _shrieks_ , trying to press himself into the woodwork to no avail, and they’re— he’s— reaching toward himself, and whispers resonate in his own skull and it’s his voice, it’s Ugarth’s, it’s Ob’nockshai, and his again, demanding, fierce, bloody, and he crosses his arms over his chest, gripping his sides, because it’s himself and it’s magic and if it’s himself and it’s magic then he just needs to stop himself and he feels Shocking Grasp coursing through his fingertips. 

Electricity arcs off of his fingers, darting across and through his flesh with ease and he uses all energy he has, pouring magic into the vicious yellow streaks, and his hands—his brother’s hands— Velrisa’s hands— grab towards his arms, trying to pull them away, but it’s not until he’s _won_ that he drops the spell. His hands lax, and he falls limp against the wall. 

\-----

He doesn’t dream. He wakes up. 

A glass of water is passed into his hands, and he obeys silently, drinking it and staring at the cup. 

There are bandages wrapped around his side, and he’ll look another day to inspect the pale scars laced across it. 

Sylnan sits on the bed beside him. There’s no ‘I’m sorry’, there’s no ‘how are you doing’. There’s just quiet. 

Sylnan scoots closer, and leans just enough that their shoulders touch. 

There’s a whole novel of words in the silence between them. 

“Hey,” Br’aad says. 

“Hey.”

And it’s silent again, but that’s alright. He leans his head against his brother’s shoulder, and the two sit in a full silence. It’s happened before. It’ll happen again. The scars will fade. 

“No more alcohol for you, mister,” Sylnan teases, and of course, Br’aad smiles back. 


End file.
